I believe within us all sensuality lurksawaiting the right touch or kissa rising pulse of light and heata shared repast of loving blisswithin us all waiting.

First kisses are fresh and sweet, but once the taste is taught, how keenly in experienced lovers builds the heat, tumbling together anew in passion caught.

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Mid Morning after St Patrick's Day Don't wake me from this crumpled sleeplet me lie here still and dream overthe night which was beforethe cool early morning hourswe stumbling returned homeour feet following old pathwaysas our lips did also findthe tip of tongue and bare skintumbling down when we got withinhow hot your body burnedsheathed in alcohol and passionour kisses scattered shotsyet they land with lustful forceand teeth tore back buttonsand hands undid zip and beltsthere was a need to view anewthe taut sexuality of youI saw the desire in your gazereflecting that which was within mineyou woman true of belly curvedbreasts the fruit hanging lushand neither of us thought to blushas every part of meaccepted every single part of youthe lines angular and curves fulldemanding me take all of youmy kisses searching cross your skinto blow upon the fire lit withinthe grins and cooing as against each other we moved our bodiesno athletic convention of sportthe sport was of our own inventionlegs around waists drawing inarms holding leverage and weightthese kisses brought us alivethis rutting eagerness as we matetake me and take you and takethe night this day and dawnas we sensually extract and elicitevery groan and kiss and moanso hot with alcohol we burncelebrating in cheered salute in turnSt Patrick's Day and green beerthe fact we two are linked herethe heat of your molten corethe nails raking again demanding morein this shadow of St Patrick's Dayloving living with abandonsuch trust in you can showthe total honesty of each otherso let me doze a little longerso fatigued a sleep make me strongerthen when I am awake we canstay in bed and begin the foreplayof celebrating each other once again.

Cardio ExaminationIf they pulled my heart outwonder what they would seewould they declare my heart was workingwith full and unstinted functionalityas they probed and proddedsought out all my heart's secretswould they be able to seethe many holes and regretswould they note the relationshipwhich drew a glacial crevasse slice across this heart of minescarred and blackened and stuntedall my heart could ever beand all those minor nicks and scarsfrom those passing with whom I did engagewhich as some adventures doas watches rundown and stoppedno longer caring for the time togetherno longer caring at all fullstopor would they find veinsas thick as highway tunnelsthrough which new hope pumpedkeeping alive this old heartgiving heart red allure of health when on closer appraisalis so battered chewed and tatteredthough sweet with a touch of tartstill rising to seek to embraceopportunity when presentedand so I wonder whatthey will see when they pop outthis heart of mine for examinationmore than a cursory interrogationgo ten rounds with rubber hose and phone bookdemanding answers of that addicted organwhich on living and love is hookedthis old heaving heart of mine.

When They Closed the LidWhen they close the lidwill I see the same patternrepeated ad-infinitum in my sightan image of an image extendedtill all of life a mantra protractedwill I see your translucent facehear the words never spokenfeel your breath on my skinwill I laugh or simply crywonder how many times one can diemy heart breaking anewas when they closed the lid on you

When they close the lidwill I hear choruses of gullsor the munching of wormswill there be a choir of angels singingsuch delights of the distant paradisea sound of sliding collapsing Arctic Ice so clean and unsullied it is blueand only half as pure as youand what might I hear you saywords of hello and good-daythose words silenced from my earswhen once all I heard was tearsmy heart breaking anewas when they closed the lid on you

When they close the lidand I reach up and touchwill it just be the grain I traceand in that grain a faceof something greater than myselfcustodian of a truth often soughtnever discovered by those livingand inside this box the givingof all answers which were soughtsince first I felt that deepest hurtwill my touch finally reach youmy embrace truly soothe youas my embrace never had chance toall those years beforewhen beginning was endand Love Fate could not bend when before I heldand my heart was felledmy heart breaking anewas when the closed the lid on you.

To Set Me FreeLet me taste your pale lipsalmost dry against my owndoes not matter the month or seasondoes not matter the rhyme or reasoni want to feel those lips beneath my ownkiss you once and twice and not feel alonesee the passing light on your face movein my whispers tell you what life does provehow there can be hurt and deeper painhow after some things we are never the sameand yet we want to go back to the startbe as we were before life took us apartonce more I want to kiss your lipssee if in a kiss if into life past world slipsand if the world should remain unchangedas past remains beyond our grasp and out of rangein kissing those pale lips I once knew betterperhaps still the best of life I can rememberthe heat and roar of passion before the coldand maybe in a kiss the thaw will take a holdpeel back these numb layers fossilized of meallow me to find a path from the past to set me free.

Pasta makerA raw pasta sheet widethis is the beginning of me unmarked and plainfed into pasta maker of lifethe handle crankedand wheels turningdraw the pasta sheet throughthe tight roller pressand the bladesslicing the sheetinto that wonder of lifeis it little surpriseoften we are amazedat the shapes of pasta createdor how sometimes it feelsas if life has irrevocably changed usfor good or illthe past sliced awaychanged into a future differentlife and time always changing usas a pasta sheet draggedthrough the pressing rollers of life.

Saint Patrick's DayHeavy atmosphere of another pubstomaches lined with potato based gruban aroma of Guinness and hot sweatbecause so full these places getOn St Patrick's Day each and every yeareveryone crowded in from far and near the music is Irish folk and or punkor some eloquent boisterous drunk howling Danny Boy at the raftersacross a gale of Celtic laughterall those bright shining Irish eyesfull of banter craic and a few liesso much green being wornmore Irish-folk than ever were bornUpon the Emerald Isle so far distantand the drinking and singing constantfor on March 17th everyone is or desires to beIrish born wild strong and always free.

To the Point of PleasureFull lips on mine eager and hungrymy fingers stroking a captured nipplethe arch of your body thrusting against mea hurried rambling to undressthen fingers stroking your outer lipssliding in to caress across inner wallswetness is coming in a rising floodyou take my hardness thrusting inlegs around my waist lockedrocking and rubbing against each otherbreathlessly we enraptured explode and lie there panting and thinkingplease again please this pleasure.

SkittishWe are prosperous individualssuccessful in workowning those things we wantwe our bills and taxesdrive responsibly on the roadsand can stare down a drunkor an urban situation unsettlingsleep well through thunder at nightbelieve we know what is wrong and rightand yet I sit here skittishwaiting for you at this tablecoffee slurped down eagerlythe wash of it against my teeththe of caffeine on my tongueI can see every entering and leavingany shadow or movement makes me twitchlook up and wonder ifthis is you arrivingI was or am minutes earlyand we have conversed a hundred time beforeI know if you have siblingsthe name of your pethow your work irks youand the people you avoidbecause they bring you downI know the websites you visitfor your news of the world if you are a girly girl or something elsei know so muchand your photo studiedas if it were an examfor which I had my life to cramlooking and trying to aertainif your eyes are blue brown or tanand is that hair colour naturaland will your hair cut be the samewhen was the photo takenwas it when you were overjoyedor just feeling plainI have realised I don't know youwhen we meet what will we feeland then you are at the doorwayand I realise you feel the sameand soon we will both have to revealour inner selves and more than saidour body language will be readhow we act towards others measuredand you sit down across from meand you note my empty coffeeand we use the moment to say helloas we a waitress over to order for you your firstand for me another drinkand I am feeling skittishmy heart racing twice as fastas it would normally beatam I sweating as if Summerare my palms damp and coldshould I meet just your eyesoh god am I staringshould I look over all of youam I admiring or leeringwhat do I say to explainwhich will not sound self servingand something not plainas I am feeling skittishand you have not yet said a wordbeyond hello and alreadyI am wanting to followyour conversations over the edgeof the world to the very end.

Pennsylvanian standoffThe results are inalmost a Pennsylvanian standoffit seems Republicans lostno one's sure democrats wonno slaughter of the Lambwhile Saccone seems gonethe money poured into the election to swingthe way of a solid incumbentbeen proven redundantfor the voters thought to tellunimpressed with Trump's hellthe shifting disorganisationof a White House in chaosthe lies proliferating as rabbits on viagraand now the roulette wheel spinsand who know who the mid term wins?

Stop Light ConversationsStop light conversationsmy delving hand between your thighsthanking god for automaticswaiting for the lights to changeand talking of what we might doof where life might take youthose fragments incomplete of future will you lose them or dreams nurtureand feeling your living giving heatas you lightly slightly squirm in your seatat my fingers sensually strummingare you always on the edge of cummingis it only with me you are like thisso free and uninhibited and vibratinga bubbling burning decadent angela changeling when we embraceput aside the good girl so polite and niceas if beneath these fierce kisses you ignitefor an industrial strength lust unveiledwith none of your thoughts curtailedyour expressions frank and demandingthe kind of things we would find alarmingif watching a movie with your parentsor discussing the laws of consentmoving your hips to sit further forwardso my fingers reaching are not awkwardand there is not enough air in this caropen the window before I asphyxiate on the pheromones of our lustmy fingertips pressing against damp denimand you hold my continuously mystified gazeas you continue to reveal yourself and amazein your sensual sexual reactionsas I feel your muscle contractionssomewhere deep in you did something moveas my fingertips stroke along the grooveyou are biting on your lower lipand over your eyes your eyelids slipyou are leaning back as you lean intothe rich sensations following throughcan sense you are almost at the top when a chorus of car horns makes me stopfor the stop light has turned greenand you say something frankly obsceneand unlikely the other drivers could performin the manner to which you think they should conformbesides if they did all would be homeand not out here driving around alonewishing they were in this car and were mewhen in passing us your impatient grin they see.

Sliding Doors and WallsThese sliding doors and wallsof your many confidences the words you whisper privatesay to keep these secretthe meetings and the callsthe distance noted over allare you here or somewhere therestaring into the pond of affectationis the only face you see mirrored backthat of your narcissistic selfand so many lines in the waterso many hooks hung with baitdo you sit alone and smileas over these many blinded lovesyou sweaty masturbatemoving one piece and then the otherno one knows why you botheryou can't live without this treasonpracticed without any reasonother than the supportof your own rotting charactera person by duplicity all hollowed outhiding behind sliding doors and wallsnot caring for the bruises you leavehow those lied to might grievea player you might call yourselfa lover of many emptyas a stone rattling in a tin canall hollowness and yet what a dinloving all and can let none inbeyond the fabric of the lying selfthe person you are not or everwill be as long as you arelying to yourself and all you meet and seehiding behind sliding doors and wallsalways been less than truea traitor to the good and honesthow you nibble at their opened soulsseeking the sustenance you cannotprovide from within your corrupted selfin giving them the fake light of your loveas cardiacally poisonous as foxglove a drop of you deceptively toxica hollow crown of love you wearand such affectations you constant swearsaying is not me is fake lies bredby those who should not have saidall the truths they know and utter of your deedsleaving only the rising twisted stench of your needsand as all wiser turn and leave you ever darker and rotting fall backhiding behind sliding doors and walls.